


Fix Them

by LSPrincess



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Blood and Injury, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Dramatic Irony, Grief/Mourning, I took the liberty of doing what the Gotham writers didn't, M/M, Missing Scene, Oswald is struggling, Season/Series 04, Temporary Character Death, a little bit of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-08 08:20:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18890782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LSPrincess/pseuds/LSPrincess
Summary: The one thing [Oswald]hadn'tbeen prepared for, the one thing he hadn't evendaredto imagine, was to stumble upon two bodies lying at the other end of the room, limp, splayed out, motionless.-Just a little something I wrote for the hell of writing it. It's just Oswald's reaction to finding Ed and Lee after their dramatic stab-and-kiss-each-other session.





	Fix Them

**Author's Note:**

> Oswald might not have even been this sad upon discovering them, but you know, I wanted angst for the sake of angst. I hope you enjoy :))

Oswald’s agonizing limp certainly made the expedition into the Narrows take much longer than he had initially intended. The _last thing_ he’d really wanted was to come back down into this place, dank and dusty and _reeking_ of street filth — he would never understand what compelled Ed to stay. Oswald knew Ed was smarter than this, _better_ than this — he was superior to everyone and everything down here in every imaginable way. Call Oswald sentimental, but Ed deserved more.

Though, he had to admit that the change in scenery was somewhat of a blessing. Outside, the city was in shambles. It seemed such an outcome was inevitable any time the Valeskas wormed their way to the top of Gotham with a horrifying plan clutched in the upper hand they’d so unfairly attained. It sickened Oswald to his very core to see a city he once ruled, a city he still _loved_ fall so meekly to the feet of such deranged lunatics. But, that was one of Gotham’s innumerable sicknesses: the people’s surprising eagerness to do whatever it took to survive, even if that meant bowing to a couple of clown twins straight out of the psycho circus. It was relatable in one way and pitiful in all the others.

Oswald had trekked his way to the narrows, however disinclined, to see if Ed and Lee could provide him and his steadily growing army with something useful: supplies, money, a _plan,_ for Christ’s sake — anything to help them claw their way back to the top of the hellish inferno they were collectively insane enough to call their home.

In the event of their insubordination, Oswald had been prepared to rob them with guns blazing. In all honesty, he would rather avoid such extreme measures if at all possible, but the resignation with which he faced such a high probability of disobedience was pertinacious, and he knew he would not hesitate to give the kill order.

“Ed?” he called in a sing-song voice, peering around corners with a devilish grin plastered to his face. He almost felt like he couldn't _stop_ smiling — the thought sent a chill racing down his spine.

He hated to admit it, but one thing that ginger genius and his crazy clown of a brother had in common was the gut-wrenching communicability of their hysteria. Oswald had spent _days_ in close proximity with the latter, and even _he_ occasionally found himself unable to fight the maniacal smile that begged to grace his pale lips.

But the mania always subsided, thank God, and whether that was just nature’s course or the courtesy of his iron-willed resolve, he’d never know. A part of him never wanted to know.

But still, he smiled, and he was fairly certain those flamboyant freak shows were nowhere to be found. The city was on a steady slope to Hell, people were dying, their government was failing, and _nothing was funny._ But _still,_ he smiled. He supposed that was just the J. Valeska legacy.

 _“Ed,_ I know you’re down here! You certainly weren't out _there_ fighting the war those _psychopaths_ plunged us into.” He allowed himself a dry, nasally laugh, one that worked itself up into a melodic, throaty cackle.

The pain in his foot was pulsing up to his hip now with every excruciating step he took, but he’d come this far, and now he was limping through the doorway to what seemed to be the main room of the Narrows, where fights were viewed and meetings were held and schemes were thought out. Where he knew he’d find his dear old friend.

“Edward, we have things to _discuss!_ Where are you? Hiding out with your _girlfriend?”_ He scoffed and shook his head, putting almost all of his weight on his cane and not giving it a second glance when it bent under the force. “She doesn't _love you,_ Ed! Didn't I tell you she was just—”

 _Using you_ was going to be the end to that sentence, and Oswald had been fully mentally and physically prepared for an assault after he’d gotten those words out. That left him prepared for everything imaginable: gunfire, mind games, physical assault, and, first and foremost, the Queen of the Narrows and her little Prince of Puzzles’ indisposition to cooperate.

The one thing he  _hadn't_  been prepared for, the one thing he hadn't even _dared_ to imagine, was to stumble upon two bodies lying at the other end of the room, limp, splayed out, motionless.

One was dressed in a beautiful blue coat and slumped against the edge of a desk. Thin. Straight black hair. Lee.

The other was lying not a foot away from her on their back. Clad head to toe in deep, striking emerald green. Long. Thin. The lenses of their glasses catching the light from the setting sun as it spilled through the filthy window behind them. Dark brown hair cast black in the shadows. Elegant. Gorgeous. So much green it made Oswald want to roll his eyes but oh, there was red, too. Green and red, oh _so much_ _red_ that it made Oswald drop his cane with heartbroken, mindless abandon.

The smile was gone.

“Ed?” Oswald choked out, simultaneously sickened by the weakness in his voice and surprised that it didn't sound weaker. Though, to be fair, he couldn't hear his voice too clearly through the ringing in his ears.

He took a step, hesitated, then careened forward, stumbling over his own feet and eventually collapsing, the pain he should be feeling in his bad leg lost to the numbness of his extremities — the numbness of his whole _body._ He couldn't even feel the tears on his face, but he knew they were there.

“Ed? _Ed?!”_ Oswald cried, gathering his friend’s upper body into his shaking arms, dragging his lolling head into his lap. “Ed…Ed, this isn't funny. This isn't a _game,_ Ed!” he sobbed, pushing back the younger man's still immaculate hair, smoothing his hand over his cold, clammy forehead, stroking those unfairly sharp cheekbones with his thumb. He managed a laugh but it was choked, unsteady, unrealistic and painfully insincere.

Nothing was funny.

 _“Ed,”_ he gasped, his voice a wheezing rasp. “I’m sorry, Ed. Oh, _God…_ I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Ed, _please,_ I’m so, _so_ sorry…”

It felt right to apologize. Truth be told, Oswald had no idea what he was apologizing _for,_ but it felt _right._ And God help him, he wanted to do something _right._

He didn't know what to do with his hands. His terrible, trembling hands, his goddamn _useless hands._ He wanted to do what felt right, but _nothing_ felt right. _Everything_ felt right. He bounced back and forth between letting them trail down Ed’s long, pale neck to the collar of his shirt before jerking them back up to his face, wiping away tears that weren't there and tucking nonexistent stray hairs behind his ear. For an ever fleeting moment, he settled with having them threaded through the hair at the back of his head.

“I wasn't a good friend, was I, Ed?” he asked, his heart thudding in his chest, beating against his ribs, pounding, racing, _begging_ the man in his arms to respond.

He didn't.

“I wasn't a good friend. I-I was a _terrible_ friend — I was a _liar,_ I was _selfish,_ inconsiderate, unf—un _f_ _eeling_ , terrible, terrible, _terrible._ A-And an even worse enemy too, I bet. Stupid, a-a-and _passionate_ and driven by my base emotions…” He stopped and stared. Stopped and waited. Waited and pleaded, _pleaded_ for some reaction.

There was none.

“You said that, Ed. D-Do you remember saying that? How you could never love someone like me? That I-I-I—that I was driven by… _hate_ a-and _anger_ and _fear_ and _love…_ Do you remember that, Ed? You remember that, don’t you?” He cupped Ed’s face with both of his hands, his trembling hands, his stupid, stupid, _stupid…_

He screamed. A helpless, pitiful howl of anguish that pealed through his throat and made the very walls of the room shake. He screamed and rocked, holding Ed’s head to his chest and _screaming,_ screaming until he all he could physically manage was a mousy whine.

“I wasn't good enough, Ed! I-I wasn't good as _anything_ you needed, and I’m _sorry,_ but please…please, Ed, don’t do this. This isn't the way to get back at me! This is just _cruel,_ Ed, it’s _cruel,_ please…”

His hands, ever indecisive, moved to pull the glasses from Ed’s face, his fingers quaking so badly he more so knocked them off than anything else. He’d hardly ever seen him without his glasses, hardly ever gotten the chance, especially after their whole conundrum at the docks, but now, here he was, cradling the head of the man he once loved and gazing upon his pale, impassive face. His gorgeous, angular face.

He looked colder without the glasses, more stern and business-like. More like the men Oswald was used to dealing with, the men who demanded money or territory or some other material good from him.

Oswald didn't like it.

He couldn't think straight, couldn't feel anything, couldn't hear, could hardly see through his tears. He couldn't do anything. He couldn't go on.

 _“You idiot!”_ he bellowed, clenching his fist in Ed’s tie and jerking his head up closer to his, his sudden change of heart making him dizzier than he already was. “You _moron!_ I _told_ you she was using you, and what did you do? You turned on _me!_ You kept _loving her!”_ His screams were a higher pitch, squeaky, shaky, almost childish. He resented it, but he didn't correct himself. He couldn't.

This was Ed’s fault. Hadn't _he_ been the one to tell _Oswald_ that love was the greatest weakness for men like them? Those were _his words,_ and of course Oswald hadn't listened — hell, he was only _human,_ but he thought Ed would be _better than that._ Ed was _smarter,_ colder, a calculating brain and a dusty, unused heart.

Once, Oswald had even thought him emotionless, however fanciful or puerile such a notion might be. He’d thought it was true, no matter how much he hated to accept it, but Ed just had to go and prove him wrong _now,_ didn't he? And so cruelly, so painfully, so _agonizingly_ that the rest of the world melted away and all there was was Oswald, kneeling in the cold, unfeeling abyss of despair and holding the man he used to love with every fibre of his being.

Oh, God — the man he _still loved._

Another sobbing laugh bubbled up inside of him and spilled past his lips before he could think better of it, filling the room with its resonating, bone-chilling lunacy, followed by a shuddering gasp so strong it made his lungs ache. And they kept coming. Little shaky, hysterical laughs that were almost indistinguishable from a wail, ripping the life from him with every wavering exhalation until he was bent over Ed’s body from the force of them, teetering on the edge of passing out or vomiting.

Preferably, neither would happen, but he figured the latter was more favorable in the grand scheme of things and braced himself for the burning pain of bile tearing through his throat.

Only, before it could, something deep inside of him dug up his voice from the hole it had hidden itself in and forced it past his lips, spitting out words he hadn't even had time to think about.

“I’m not gonna lose you,” he wheezed, caught somewhere between a wracking sob and hysterical laugh. His face had contorted itself back into a smile at some point in his distress, and he hadn't the strength to fight it off, no matter the inappropriate timing.

Actually, he was almost grateful for his body’s strange response. It gave him something to feel, the muscles in his face aching from the strange stretch of his mouth.

He let out another side-splitting laugh, took in another sputtering breath, and let his tears stream freely down his twisted face, tasting them on his lips and feeling them burn his eyes. The feeling was new. He was glad for the feeling.

“You think you beat me?” He guffawed, his throat raw from his relentless screams and sobs and laughter. “You really think I give up that easily? You’re _deluded,_ Ed! You always were! And I’m not letting you leave me without knowing that I outsmarted you!”

His smile left again, and he was left a weeping, breathless, disgruntled man, his hand hovering so warily over the dark red stain on the front of Ed’s shirt. With all the strength in his body, he forced his hand down, closing it over the oozing wound and letting his eyes fall shut with the understanding, the realization that Edward Nygma was really, _truly_ dead.

“I _need_ you…” he whimpered, his voice breaking around every vowel, his head tilting forward until his forehead met Ed’s, his tears falling onto Ed’s ghostly cheeks. They didn't trail down his face. They didn't soak in. They just sat there, perfectly balanced on that endless plane of ashen skin.

_No._

Oswald whipped his head up, his hair flying in his face in tear-drenched strands, and glared at his men, who’d all this time been standing a respectful distance away.

“Get them to Hugo Strange,” he growled, the pitch of his voice rasping through his dry, overused throat like claws. “And you tell him to _fix them.”_

He pulled his hand away from Ed’s stomach, turning once more to gaze upon his gorgeous face, so serene and ethereal in death.

Death. How ludicrous. Death was a laughable term in Gotham — it had been for a very long time. Oswald was deeply disappointed in himself for forgetting that so quickly. Death was no fearful thing. It was a hindrance, a frustrating obstacle at the very least.

Once, at some point so far in the past it was almost a ghost of a memory, Oswald had feared death more than anything else. Now, he was wiser, stronger, better, and some sick part of him deep inside almost longed for it. But death was temporary in Gotham — especially as long as Hugo Strange was alive.

Yes, Strange would fix them. He’d make them better, he’d bring Ed back to him, back safely to stand in front of Oswald and glare at him once more, roll his eyes at Oswald’s aversion to his frivolous wordplay, tell Oswald how much smarter he was than him.

He leaned back and laughed, his throat convulsing with the action.

Strange would fix them. And God help him if he didn't.


End file.
